No Time Land
by TuckerInLaw
Summary: A disturbing book appears in the TARDIS and torments the Doctor's mind with legendary prophecy no one heard of. Very soon strange things start happening, and Clara Oswald has to take part in a whole new adventure and face a new side of the Doctor she hasn't seen yet.
1. Chapter 1

No Time Land

A disturbing book appears in the TARDIS and torments the Doctor's mind with legendary prophecy which no one heard of. Very soon, strange things start happening, and Clara Oswald has to take part in a whole new adventure and face a new side of the Doctor she hasn't seen yet.

Author's precautions/notes/whatever/30 seconds to read I promise:

*I've been thinking for a while what rating I should give to this story and decided to give it M just to be safe. In the main it's T.

*The story is AU but has (I hope) a spirit of original series.

*The story contains elements of Whouffaldi (for different reasons) but no M. Most of the time, it's strong friendship of an asexual alien and a human being.

*Flames, criticisms, thoughts, emotions, swearings are all welcomed, and here is why: I respect your opinion. Therefore, I never delete comments (if they're not adverts of any kind). But at this moment, I want you to pay attention to the line below.

*Please, leave all your requests in PM. It's very frustrating to wake up at nights for a mail notification and see e.g. "that was good, let them kiss, then kill, then resurrect, then kill again, then make love to each other in the next chapter". It's like a stab in my back – hurts very much.

Thank you, my angel, given me for some kind of good thing I've pleased the Mighty 42 with. I have no idea what she did by that little talk but it really boosted those little thingies in skull box again.

* * *

There was a heavy atmosphere in the console room; the TARDIS didn't dare to make any sound less she disturbed her master. The Doctor was deep in his thoughts, chewing at his fingernails; his boots made a heavy sound with every step. Sometimes he walked up to the second floor and read words in an open book. He went to one of the blackboards covered with white marks of chalk and gave it a thoughtful look. The Doctor added some notes, nodded slightly and considered all he had written on the board while roaming around the second floor — an unconscious action of one who thinks too much and can't stand immobility for a long time. Then, he froze abruptly, as a man struck with the greatest idea, returned to blackboards and erased every single line he had produced in two and a half weeks.

Deciding that there isn't much to think about and exhaling a tired loud yawn, he went to his bedroom. Put off his clothes, put on pyjamas. He would continue tomorrow. Or maybe he would not do such a thing. Maybe those words from _History of The Centre of the Universe, Paradoxical Eternity and Eternal Paradoxes_ by G'Bor meant nothing and were only a childish legend, every country on every planet has one. But how could then it happen that nobody heard of the book? Not a single library had something about it, let alone those specific words. But what if, the Doctor questioned not letting his eyes shut yet, they really have some sort of value? What if it's a message created for him?

After thirty minutes of staring at the ceiling and internal musings about whether it was or was not something worthwhile two weeks and a half to spend on, his tiredness had finally overcome him.

The Doctor's dream wasn't a pleasant one. It was something disturbing. He dreamt of standing on the cliff; a shadow figure stood behind him, and though he couldn't see it, he sensed it. When a strong tide hit the cliff, the shadow figure pushed the Doctor off it and run away joining the other three — as mysterious as itself. When the Time Lord woke up, he thought of the dream as ridiculous. Perhaps, he'd been investigating the book for too long and now needed a little rest. He needed to shake up: forget those silly words, take Clara and go straight to the dangerous place.

After his morning cares, he went to the console room of the TARDIS in a cheerful mood promising his machine one hell out of a day. And she was more than happy to provide it.

The Doctor made sure it was Wednesday or a weekend (it was Saturday) and the TARDIS landed in the bedroom of Clara's apartment. But before letting Clara in, he cast a glance at clean blackboards, which had been previously occupied with his thoughts, quotes and other stuff not so long ago. Some mysteries aren't necessarily to solve, he concluded. Besides, this particular mystery didn't seem to be a vital one. More like a rubbish mystery. A rubbish mystery, thus, isn't a mystery at all.

"Hello, Clara," the Doctor greeted a woman sitting on her bed with homework notebooks beside her. "Mind if I steal a little time of yours?"

* * *

The adventure was everything he could wish for. Clara liked the planet, and she couldn't close her mouth in awe as they walked along the streets of shining houses made of glass. There were lots of astonished Claras reflected on the surface of mirrors and lots of proud Doctors trying to hide his little smirks without success. Very soon it appeared that no one from the mirror city liked them — what a surprise — and when the Doctor tried to speak to one of the locals they ended up in a jail. Who knew it was against the law to speak out loud! And what a silly law indeed! Of course, it took their time to escape the prison, and at the end of the day, they finally managed to find the TARDIS.

Exhausted as ever, Clara asked the Doctor for permission to stay on the board for a while, which the Time Lord was glad to give. He liked when she was with him a little longer, though he would have never ever admitted that.

"I will never forget that face when you asked her where a toilet is!" Clara laughed, as she made herself comfortable in the bed. "That 'O' and such a terror in her eyes! Her jaw literally dropped down to the ground!" she tried to mimic that alien the Doctor had spoken to before and finally got him to smile shyly. "That was amazing!"

"Oh, you just wait for tomorrow. I have more things to amaze you with," before she could say anything or even protest, the Doctor stood up from the mattress and left Clara's bedroom.

Little Clara knew what the Doctor was going to do to make her stay on board of his ship even longer. While she was sleeping or trying to sleep wondering what his last words could mean, he sneaked into her house and gathered every homework she needed to check on Monday. It was a big pile of forty-fifty notebooks that would have killed seven hours of Clara's life. And when it was a noticeable time for a human being with a short lifespan, it was nothing for him, and he was glad to help her with this work.

It appeared very soon that he'd underestimated the evilness of checking them. Sitting on a jump-seat near the console panel, he bit a pen as he disagreed with some statements in essays but thought of them as a part of a school program, which is, as far as he knew, wasn't perfect and contained lots of historical gaps and subjective judgment. Being in two minds made him give some students "A" and others "C" for the same statement.

In general, marking essays was a very irksome work. He got tired of checking some dull long text, which, thankfully, was the last one in the heap. The student it belonged to was very meticulous: every paragraph was half of a sheet, and there were about six sheets full of a small neat handwriting.

The Doctor unstuck his eyes from the loathsome essay to let them rest. The console room was blurry and getting darker; he didn't notice when his little rest turned out to be not so short, and he dozed off.

* * *

 _Three figures stood beside him. All of them were unfamiliar to him; all except one little skinless creature wrapped in black ragged monk clothes who was constantly moaning about being cold._

 _"C-c-col-ld," it moaned again, shaking and wrapping itself dipper into the clothes._

 _It was Death. He knew that. Of course he knew, for who's his longest-living companion?_

 _But who were the others? He couldn't recognize those shadows._

 _And most important, who was he?_

"Were you checking all these while I was sleeping?!" a loud question made him woke up. As he opened his eyes, startled, still thinking of a fragile image of bare flesh in a black tunic, he met Clara's puzzled face.

"What?" he asked her in confusion looking at his surroundings. Everything was blurry and unstable as if the lens on camera was trying to focus but failed it. How did he get here? Where was he? Who was he? A panic clenched his hearts making them pound quickly, pumping so needed oxygen in his brains as fast as they could.

Clara knew this look in his eyes perfectly, she'd seen it before a dozen times on school kids who had to sit through exams. Her hands cupped his face to let him have something to concentrate on, and that surprisingly worked as his eyes darted back to her. She smiled soothingly at him, rubbing circle patterns on his cheeks. "Hey, I know Fin can make you terrified just with his handwriting and accuracies. Usually, I give him his A's and proceed to the next homework," said Clara to him, and he felt a bit more relaxed by her words, even though he didn't grasp who that Fin was and why he should fear him.

"I –" he looked around. There were blackboards on the second floor, bookshelves, piles of books all over the most inconvenient places, a wild never-ending carousel of lights and most of all a tender groan made by the TARDIS. The only thing he hadn't given even a peek was an open massive book by G'Bor, which was lying on a coffee table. "I had a nightmare?" The Doctor shrugged and bit his lip. He was sure it was, then why had he given it a question intonation? It was a nightmare. Doubtless. Very stupid and short, but a nightmare. Nothing to be so scared about. But then, why couldn't he remember what it was about?

"It's nothing to be ashamed of. Everybody has it from time to time," Clara assured him of that, and he easily believed her. She looked for more words to say to him, not willing to leave his cold cheeks yet. "Thanks for helping me. I owe you. Any particular wishes?"

"Yes, pick up something amazing for us," he jumped up from the seat, heading to the console panel. Nightmare, nightmare, nightmare. Probably it was nothing. "Your choice. But not ridiculously stupid. No Hoods, no talking mushrooms, no space amebas, etc. And not too calm, okay? I don't like calmness. You can be calm at home all you like. Ah, and not a shop, too. And not extremely dangerous. Not something that I wouldn't have approved."

"It's not my choice then with all that 'not's," she chuckled, following him.

The Doctor turned around, "Right, choose whatever you want."

"Medieval London. I want to know what my house was before I moved in." As he gave her a bewildered look, which was practically crying "not stupid, remember?" she answered him with a light shrug. After all, why not?

"As you wish." He put coordinates of the twelfth century London. "But you will be disappointed!"

"O yeah. Sure I will be!"

The Doctor lowered the space-time throttle, and the TARDIS took aim at the Earth: more like falling from its orbit and heading towards the ground than actually flying. He observed his space ship one more time, trying to ignore one massive thing on the coffee table on the second floor, averting his eyes when he failed. Evil thing. As soon as this little trip was over, he'd make sure to get rid of it for good.

"What's that?" he heard Clara saying and looked at her to find out his quick glance at _History of The Centre of the Universe, Paradoxical Eternity and Eternal Paradoxes_ gone not unnoticed.

"The book?" He tried to sound casual but even he could hear his voice a bit tight. "Oh, nothing interesting I assure you. Its author talks about science as of magic and magic as of science. Apparently, he was mad. Very mad. The book is nothing but a waste of paper. I'll probably burn it very soon, don't worry."

But Clara's curiosity was already long ahead of her, he watched her going up the stairs. Even the TARDIS loud bang as they arrived at their destination and good old more than ever stinky London just outside didn't stop her. Not even his warning 'Clara'. Clara walked around the book cautiously, noticing how ancient yellow papers looked like. It must be more than two hundred years old or maybe even much older. Its text was in unknown language, but soon enough the TARDIS translated it for her in English. Her eyes caught several lines that were underlined, possibly by the Doctor himself as that trace was new:

 _The one who makes, the one who heals,_

 _The one who takes and the one who kills._

 _One could become another. One could be not one, but two. One will be suffering. And one shall leave the world forever._

There was something strange about those words. As she read them through, she got a feeling she knew them her whole life. Indeed, it was like her mom used to repeat those same words over and over before she got to bed. But that's ridiculous, she'd seen them for the first time; how could she know them already?

"What do you think? Nonsense, yes?" The Doctor leaned on the console, waiting for her verdict.

"I won't lie to you, this riddle here sounds familiar to me," she cast a glance at him and met his open-eyed face. He was horrified, but horrified of what?

"And to me, too," he admitted, almost whispering. But before she could say anything, he managed to shut her up. "Shall we see your London?"

* * *

She couldn't notice that London wasn't so bad as she had imagined it would be. Dirty, grey, dull — yes, but not drowned in mud and wastes completely. The other thing she noticed was that everyone was staring not at the blue box, which appeared on the street out of nowhere, not at her for she was wearing simple jeans and shirt; every trader, drunk man, beggar, peasant was looking at and whispering about the Doctor and only him. Indeed, it was such uncommon thing to see a man so deep in his thoughts, thought Clara. And he cared little to share them with her, even though it seemed important and somehow connected with that mysterious book.

What was that strange book really about, and why did the Doctor glare at it as the most abominate thing? Was it dangerous? It must be, as it contained those strange words. What did they mean? And why did the Doctor refuse to share? Just as she peeped at him right then, she wondered how many times he read those words over and over.

As they passed through several guardians, they climbed up the stairs on the stone wall that was faithfully protecting the city from enemies. It wasn't too high, barely six metres, but sure it was enough for this time. The Doctor stopped on the edge, looking over the surroundings. Then, he pointed with his finger at the forest, not so far away from the city.

"There will be your house. Happy?" he gave her a look. There was no adventure on the way to the wall. The most boring stroll he'd ever had.

"Not happy but relieved it's not a garbage pit," she said.

"Congratulations! I'm so happy for you. Let's get back to the TARDIS and have something real. And I won't let you make a choice twice. Next time, give me something abstract: beautiful, amazing, magical. Any adjective will do."

"As you wish," she chuckled, going down the stairs. In fact, she was more than glad that he will be the one to choose their destination. She knew many things about her home planet, Earth, but not about the Universe itself, no matter how some aliens surprisingly reminded her of her own kind. The Doctor, on the other hand, was a walking encyclopaedia and an experienced traveller. If there really was someone who could take you to somewhere 'magical', it was him.

"Halt!" they heard somewhere behind them on the wall and immediately turned around.

A man not of a big height, dressed like a soldier with a shield on his back and a sword on his waist, was running to them. If that thing could be called running at all! It was more like jumping in heavy armour, which clunked with every step he managed to make. In addition, a green coat was too long for the man and, as the wind blew in his back, it was always in his short feet, making Clara somewhat concerned about him.

"What is it? Is it forbidden to climb on the wall?" Clara asked as she observed the man from toes to tip more closely.

"No, it is not, lady, just don't annoy the watchmen." He put his hands on knees, still trying to catch his breath. If he was a soldier, then he had never fought in a real battle — he ran mere five metres and was already out of breath. "Sorry to interrupt your stroll. My name is Cyneweard. Are you the physician?" Cyneweard asked the Doctor.

"I am." The Doctor looked cautious. "Why?"

"Someone wishes to speak with you," it was the first time Clara caught a note of disbelief in his eyes as if they were ghosts he was so desperate to see once. "Come!"

As the little man led them along the wall, Clara looked at the Doctor, "What are you doing?" she hissed. "What if someone is injured? You're not a real physician; you can't heal, you know that!"

"I might be not a physician. But I am the Physician. And someone has been waiting for me, as it seems," the Doctor said. "Who is this fellow, Cyneweard?"

"He's not any fellow to you, Physician! You might be as powerful as he described, but you shall watch your tongue. He's a priest of St Helen!" He said vociferously. But as the Doctor looked at him tiredly, Cyneweard flinched with fear.

"Do I know him?" the Doctor asked. Clara could tell he was interested but acted as it didn't bother him at all.

"Not in person, sir. The father of the father of the father of his father knew someone very close to you if I'm not mistaken."

"Any description of that someone?" the Doctor scowled.

"No. By that time that man was blind and one step to the grave."

"Ah," the Doctor nodded. "Of course." He turned to Clara and mouthed 'how convenient'. "And what business this St Helen priest has with me?"

"I know little, sir," Cyneweard shook his head and with it his armour. "I've been going to St Helen every morning, and every morning his Grace has been telling us about you. You see, his father was expecting you to see, but unfortunately, he died four years ago or so, and now he is the one who spreads a word about you. So last week his Grace called me to talk privately after prayers. I thought he would get angry with me because I was really drunk. But believe me, I was as quiet as mice, nobody had really noticed that I was drunk. Besides, I had a day-off! What do you expect me, to be sober in my day-off?"

"Long story short?" the Doctor coughed meaningfully.

"Ah yes! Sorry, silly me. He took me to his private chamber and locked the door after me. He was nervous, looked around him twice when the wind blew through the cracks in the door. Then, he looked at me… He looked at me with such a piercing eye that, believe me, I became sober again! Then he shook me with such a force I'd never thought was hidden in such a thin old body. He wasn't going to talk about my state; I realised. He told me, 'Listen to me, Cyneweard. Listen and hear me! The Physician I've been telling you about all that time is coming! Oh, yes, he's coming and not alone! Remember those signs of him for you're the one who shall meet him. The screech of saws, the blue chamber, the young girl of your height in strange clothes. His face must be old, his hair grey, but let it not confuse you! He's much older than any of us, he's much older than my grandfather's grandfather laid in the soil! As you see him, you shall bring him to me and I will speak to him. The time has finally come.'"

Clara scowled. "Hang on. 'Young girl of you height?'"

"Interesting," the Doctor said after the man had ended his story. "I think I want to see this chap of yours."

"We're almost there."

* * *

Alphege, that was the name of the priest, was a typical churchman — with typical clothes and with a strange glint in his eyes. Alphege was waiting for the Doctor, and a weight of time on his shoulders was perceptible. It was something in his walk as he touched a head of every bench on the way to them, and in his relieved smile as his family was finally freed from the oath they'd given four generations before.

And yet, as the priest was getting closer to them, the Doctor couldn't bring the idea what kind of friend would prefer such a bizarre way to deliver him a message. Maybe this priest could shed some light upon this strange business.

"Welcome, travelers out of this world! You can call me Alphege. At last it is my privilege to give you the message, Physician," he said in a low voice, as he approached the Doctor. "I was quite concerned if I ever live 'til you come. I was so glad to know you'll be here very soon."

"And how did you know that?" the Doctor asked.

"I was told so. By your friend. But forgive me, could we talk privately?" Alphege wondered, giving a peek at Clara. The Doctor gave a doubtful look at the dwarf guardian. "Cyneweard won't do her a harm — of this I can assure you."

The Doctor turned to Clara who was saying nothing, waiting for his decision to make. Should he say that he trusts her or should he make everything possible to make her stay away from troubles? Not all his friends weren't dangerous, and if he had any in Medieval England — which he never had, the thing was clear — then they certainly wouldn't have been friendly. "Clara?" he asked her, and by her name he meant if she was okay with the idea of staying outside with this wall guard.

"Fine," she shrugged and headed to the exit. But before Cyneweard had closed the door, she stopped and told him with a light smile on her face, "Be polite."

"Yes, mom. I'll try my best," he shooed her with a wave of his hand. As they were left alone, the Doctor turned to the priest. "Now, when nobody listens, can you give me that message already? And could you describe that friend of mine?"

The priest's eyebrows knitted together, making a deep wrinkle on the nose bridge. "What question I must answer first?"

"The last one," the Doctor decided. By knowing who was the addressee he could easily catch the spirit of the message itself, he thought.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but the answer is: I don't know. I found a note telling me that you're coming on the last bench after a preachment. But I simply cannot imagine who could have left it. The family of Rodwell that sat here is a good family, and I've known them for ages. Here, you can take a look at the note."

Alphege gave him a little paper folded twice. It was yellow and was scattered with words about some herbs. Apparently, it was torn from an old book, which might have been very valuable but not for the secret addressee. When the Doctor unfolded it, the writing was big and sluggish, as if a child had written it. It simply said, _"HE S KOMIN TO TH VALL"_ , with deep red ink.

"That Rodwell family you mentioned," the Doctor said, "are they rich?"

"No, they aren't. And now they're poorer than ever."

"Why so?"

"Their father died. He was killed by a startled horse four days ago."

The Doctor gave a look to the priest. "He died?"

"Indeed. But let it not sadden you in the least, he died as a good man." The Doctor scowled as his brain raced a thought after another thought. Alphege sensed his deep disturbance but was too eager to finally release his family of the oath. "Forgive me, but shall I finally give you the message? Please, it won't take too much time."

The Doctor nodded. And as the priest began to speak, his eyes inflated two times in disbelief; those words he'd heard already not so long ago and hadn't thought to hear them in his life ever again.

 _The one who makes, the one who heals,_

 _The one who takes and the one who kills._

 _One could become another. One could be not one, but two. One will be suffering. And one shall leave the world forever._


	2. Chapter 2

Author's meaningless exclamation: You didn't wait for it! But here it is! I present you the second chapter of this story! And I promise you it will take less than a half of the year to get the next one! Probably! y

P.S. NO, I didn't forget this story. Just had lots and lots of work that needed my creativity in a different area.

P.P.S. I'm so proud that I've finally made it.

* * *

"What takes them so long there? I thought the message was short!" Cyneweard moaned, fidgeting on one spot. "I need to go back to the wall, you know. I'm a guard! I have a sword and many businesses to attend to! Like… protecting this city!" He cried out out proudly.

Clara sighed heavily. That dwarf got really on her nerves. From time to time, he got his sword out of sheath and shook it in the air like an incompetent child on a medieval fair. Given a thought, he was a child, only with a short dark beard.

"If you are so busy," said Clara, "then why are you still here?"

He opened his mouth to say something but thought against that and shut it instantly. Ah, right! Clara knew that reaction, when you're too proud to admit you're simply interested in something. When you cover your pathetic curiosity with 'some important business' in school.

Leaving Cyneweard for another outburst, Clara tried to peek through the door crack, but there was little to see. And god! It was so chilly outside, it hit her only now that it must be autumn here. And she wasn't dressed for this weather.

"Can you see them?" She didn't notice how Cyneweard put his sword back in sheath and was on the same level as her, trying to peek into another door crack.

"A little. I hope he's not being rude again," she muttered to herself, catching two figures staying absolutely still in the centre of the hall. Whatever they were talking about, Clara couldn't hear it. "Last time when he was rude to the church we've almost been burnt with many innocent women."

"Oh-oh," the guard chuckled, "and what was that wicked place called?"

"France," she answered, not paying much attention to the guard.

"Ahh, well, nothing new here," Cyneweard smiled.

Clara gave up any attempts of eavesdropping Doctor's conversation with the priest; it was just no use, the door was too thick. Instead, she decided to talk to the wall guard – it's not a common thing meeting one in her days.

"And what is your story? I dare you know many things about the Doctor and me. How did such a short man become a city guard?"

"Says who?!" the man roared and dare she say he was really offended. But not for too long. "Oh, but my story is nothing interesting, I assure you. It's just a mere luck that my father was a guard and a good man. They'd taken me when he died. Gave me his sword and shield. Put his armour on me. Then put me on the wall to watch. I don't even know how to fight," he sounded sad, but then he smiled and added: "But I know how to shout loudly if something bad is coming. Not like someone in his mind would attack a big city. Nowadays though, you should watch carefully. You never know who's really your enemy. Still, I have nothing to complain about. It's a good job." He squeezed lightly a hilt of his sword, and his words echoed with sorrow. There was more in his story than met the eye, but Clara decided against nudging him. Something in his eyes told her it was a sad story.

They'd heard something moving behind the door. It was someone's grumpy heavy steps, but to whom did they belong to? Clara hoped it wasn't the priest. If it was the priest, then the Doctor probably had done or said something very stupid, and now they might never be able to visit medieval London again. On the other side of the door, Cyneweard hoped it wasn't the Doctor. He'd heard a lot of what this man from the stars was capable for when he's angry. And he wished he never saw what it's like.

With a loud bang, the door flew wide open. "We're leaving!" the Doctor exclaimed, heading back to the blue box. "Don't ask why; in fact, don't ask anything until I let you, understood?"

"No–"

The Doctor grasped her by shoulders and turned around.

"Good. The less you understand, the better. Now, you," he nodded at the guard who was standing motionlessly near the door. He did a 'me?' gesture. "How much do they pay you?"

Cyneweard looked confused. That question wasn't what he expected to hear from a definitely furious Time Lord. He fished into his pockets and took out several coins, dropping several on the ground as they'd slipped from his shaking hands. "Twenty pennies a week," he finally told him. "Why do you ask?"

The Doctor abruptly snatched them from his hands and threw away in the church garden. "You come with us, I'll give you eighty each day."

If Cyneweard had been somewhat angry about his loss of money, he certainly was not anymore hearing such a pleasant deal. "Right. I'll accompany you, sir."

"Wait, what?" Clara put heels into the earth to prevent the Doctor from pushing her more. "Are you paying him for being our companion?"

"No. I'm paying him for another reason."

"Which is?" She didn't like how it sounded from him.

"No time. We don't have time for that, Clara. Later! Now, to the TARDIS!"

* * *

"What did he tell you?" asked Clara. Cyneweard was leading them back to the blue box standing in some street all alone. The Doctor was barely dragging his legs behind them, his hand resting on his chin, eyebrows glued together, deep in his thoughts again. Sometimes he took a breath, when his lungs were aching and his head felt cloudy.

"It's personal," he snapped back at her.

Those words again, the prophecy, whatever. Why now? Why in Medieval London, when he expected it the least? It was meant to be the most boring adventure Clara and he had ever had! He had planned something greater to come after all things were done – whatever it was, he could not remember it now. But then again, there's a better question to ask. Why then, in that book? History of The Centre of the Universe, Paradoxical Eternity and Eternal Paradoxes by G'Bor was about, well, time-loops, paradoxes and how they were affecting the Universe. And all of a sudden there was this. A paradox. A thing that didn't belong to the book. Like someone was watching him and made sure this riddle would be noticed when the time came.

"C'mon, will it hurt if you tell me?" Clara Oswald smiled tenderly, walking in front of him backwards.

The Doctor scowled. Walking on a pebble road with her back? Had she gone insane? She was going to fall! He took her hand and moved her beside him.

"Yes, it will."

"Why?"

"Because it cannot be happening," the Doctor chuckled. "Because it's insane…" He stopped in the middle of the road, getting even more suspicious glances from the crowd. "Am I going mad?"

She looked at him confused. What was he talking about? Even he couldn't answer that.

"Of course not! What makes you think so?"

The Doctor thought about it. Maybe he wasn't going mad, maybe someone really was watching him, someone very powerful. But then again, wasn't he just paranoid?

"Aye! Sir Physician!"

The Doctor turned around to see who had called him. Down the street a horseman was galloping to them, a wrapped scroll in his hand. The Time Lord put on a look like he already knew what it brought.

 _Troubles._

"A message! For you!" The horseman stoped near them, stretched his hand with the scroll to the Doctor. The Doctor didn't take it, his eyes dilated, he looked at the horseman's hand. Was that a joke, he wondered. Clara sensed immobility of her friend so she saved the horseman from embarrassment.

"From whom?" she asked the horseman, glancing at the Doctor disapprovingly.

"The Earl of York! Now, if you excuse me." The horseman galloped away.

As Clara started to unwrap the scroll, the Doctor grasped her by her wrist and stoped. "Maybe we shouldn't?"

Clara looked confused. "Why not? Do you know what it reads?"

"No–"

"Then let's see, shall we?"

The Doctor ran a hand over his face. He might be not insane now, but If it was going to be that stupid riddle again he might be will.

When Clara unwrapped the message, the writing was familiar but no, not the riddle again. It was big and sluggish, as if a child had written it. It simply said, _"FALAW MI"_ , with deep red ink.

Cyneweard only now noticed that his new employer was ten steps back and ran to them. "What is it?" he asked, his face was full of concern when he detected something unreadable in the Doctor's look.

He stood frozen on one spot, never leaving his eyes from the message. He must be going mad. Or Clara and he, somehow, possibly, likely, were trapped in the matrix of some sort. Perhaps, something had hacked the TARDIS interface, and while they'd been asleep, it had put them in a virtual reality. Perhaps…

His eyes darted to Clara's face. He checked every inch of it, every dimple, while she was gazing at him unfathomably. No, everything was fine, it's for real, no projection can reproduce so many little details of his companion's face and he knew her face quite good. Then what was really happening? Who did play with them?

"Why are you freaking out? The Earl of York must be only a child," Clara told the Doctor.

"He's over sixty years," Cyneweard corrected her, looking at the message from her shoulder.

The Doctor eyed him suspiciously. "And how do you know this? You are only a guard." Maybe he wasn't a guard. He didn't look like one after all – he looked like a man who spends a lot of hours in pubs, collecting gossips. A perfect spy with a kind trustworthy face… Or maybe he was just paranoid, again.

"You mean you don't know?" Cyneweard sought for Clara's support, but she was looking at him with the same look of surprise. "Everybody knows the Earl of York is very ill, he probably won't last another week." He stoped to see if anything rang a bell to his new companions but it didn't. "He's also the last man standing between unoccupied part of this isle and the King of Night Owls."

* * *

They were sitting in a tavern, the first one they could have found. It lacked of natural light, windows were curtained; so every small table, which was made of ship wreckages, had a cheap candlelit. The air was full of beer and ale; it was hard to breathe. It was crowdy despite the fact that it was still a midday. The Doctor looked, well, astonished. Clara was confused, too. And only Cyneweard didn't know that whoever this King of Night Owls was, he did not exist.

The King of Night Owls had arrived with unstoppable army in the beginning of this year. The army contained only arbalesters with strange crossbows, and nobody saw a single soldier from that army injured or dead. The King was powerful.

"He was not. He didn't exist," the Doctor said.

The King of Night Owls had conquered Scotland in two months. It had been an easy fight. Having seized Edinburgh, the King forced other kingdoms to obey. The North had fallen, the South was still fighting. The King was going to the South, eating the isle piece by piece. He was greedy.

He was not! He did not exist!

Night birds are the King's faithful friends, beware of owls –

"This is ridiculous!" the Doctor stated, massaging his skull with one hand. Yet not impossible, he thought to himself. How many times historical events were changed just because of one alien from the future invading the Earth? If anything, he was that alien and he did shape the history of human kind like no one did. And yet, why had he never heard of this Owl King? And was he somehow connected to the riddle? Was he someone from that riddle?

Clara cleared her throat and asked, "Have you ever spoken to someone who saw the army you have mentioned?"

"No," Cyneweard shuffled uneasily. "There are only rumours, there isn't many news about this war surprisingly. But enough of that. If the earl of York pleads for your help then… Are we going to help him in the first place? If we are, I'd like to gather my things and stock some food –"

"Oh, believe me on the TARDIS board you won't need that," Clara said, the Doctor was still in his thoughts. "And of course we will help the earl. That's what we, time travelers, always do – we answer distress call. Isn't that right, Doctor?"

The Doctor whispered something incomprehensible.

* * *

He could see that Clara was eager for this particular adventure. It was in her eyes, a warm shining spirit of adventurer looking out of them. Strange messages of invitation, alien with enormous ego to call himself the King, the war that shouldn't be – one mystery after another, a thing even he couldn't resist. But a war! A dangerous thing itself, more dangerous when it has no reason to happen. He fought in many wars, he knew what high stakes it could take and how many men were changed, were damaged after this awful bloody massacre. That war, somewhere in the middle of British island, the war that never happened, was unpredictable. Was the King someone he knew? Or not? What was his purpose? A mere simple conquering for conquering? Maybe a revenge? Was it the King who had been sending him those strange messages?

He didn't know how to answer any of those questions. But he did know one thing, one thing that he'd been taught: every war has a price. And as he looked at Clara from behind, watching her heading to the blue box… No, this price was too high for a little adventure. He had almost lost her already, and he wasn't sure he wouldn't run out of luck this time.

That's why he needed the guard. To protect her, even before he heard about the war he knew he needed one. To send her away, back to home. He didn't care what she would say to him when he came back, or what she would think if he didn't. Earth, her Earth, her little apartment in London was the safest place for now. The guard could look after her and keep her a company.

The Doctor watched his companion entering the blue box; when her figure was somewhere near the central column, he gripped Cyneweard's sleeve. "Now about your job. Eighty pennies I said? That's lame if you know some basic Maths. I'll give you something more. What would it be? Your choice. On one condition. Look after her. Stop her doing brave stupid things which might harm her."

"I'm sorry?" Cyneweard looked disorientated all of a sudden.

"Keep her save when I can't. Is that clear?" The Doctor looked into his eyes. He couldn't reveal his plan. Not when she was just behind that door, what if she's eavesdropping! C'mon, you must know what I mean!

They heard Clara calling for them; yet, no one looked back. Cyneweard nodded.

"Doctor, I think something is wrong!"

* * *

"Have you been gossiping about me behind my back, you two?" Clara asked, knitting her eyebrows together.

"Nope," Cyneweard said.

"Yes," the Doctor told her simply. He circled around the control panel and stoped next to her. "What's wrong, Clara?"

"The TARDIS. I wanted to help you a bit, enter coordinates of York, but the navigation system seems to be dead."

The Doctor eyed the panel carefully, but to him everything was fine. A little dusty but in general all was fine.

"And you think it's dead because?" His eyebrows did a thing.

She chuckled. Sometimes it's so difficult for him to let the idea that someone could understand something in his impossibly difficult machine. "Because nothing responds. And because the interface is blank." The Doctor turned the screen closer to him. Oh, yes, it was. "I'm not a technician, but it's not supposed to be like that, is it?"

The Doctor shook his head. No, it didn't. He tried switching several levers. However, it had no effect.

"See! I told you!" she switched a random tumbler to prove her point. It didn't do anything. Only, there was something with the Doctor's face. She would have expected disappointment, or slight confusion, or something of that sort. Because he always knows how to repair his beloved ship, there's not a millimetre he doesn't know. He would look sad, fix the problem and off they go back to time vortex!.. She didn't expect an anxiety.

"I guess, we'll take it the old way?" Clara shrugged trying to cheer the Doctor up. It seemed like his eyebrows would drop to his cheeks one way or the other at some point.

The Doctor simply nodded. She was suggesting a walk. A walk to York. In a wartime. The thing he had tried to avoid but now… He needed some time to sort this all out. He felt like his head would blow up eventually.

"In two days. I'm not quite in the mood now." The massive book was laying on a coffee table on the second floor, teasing him with its own existence. The Doctor recalled days when he had been looking for its author, only to find out that he died several days after he was published. He hopped to it, circling it carefully before finally taking a heavy seat. The book looked absolutely normal, it looked exactly as any book should look: made of paper, dusty. He didn't need to give it a sonic to know it was what it was. Evil thing. Perhaps, cursed thing. Why was he always buying books without checking them first?!

"Can I go?" Cyneweard asked, shuffling uncomfortably.

 _The one who makes, the one who heals,_

 _The one who takes and the one who kills._

 _One could become another. One could be not one, but two. One will be suffering. And one shall leave the world forever._

The first question towards this riddle/prophecy/whatever was whether it said about one character or four. It was not easy to answer as it first looked like. Many religions have gods who can stay solus while being in plural form at the same time.

"Yes, you can. Go back in two days at seven o'clock," Clara answered.

However, was it a religious legend? It could be a riddle for kids, for all he knew.

With a bow, the guard nodded, leaving the two on their own.

Clara saw that something was bothering the Doctor's mind. He was glaring at the book on the second floor, the one he had shown her not so long ago, and he wore a troubled face. So, step by step, she closed the gap between them. She decided to start with an easy question, "What has he told you?"

The Doctor chuckled, gently closing the book with a light pat. "Oh, Clara Oswald, he's told me impossible things which make no sense even to me. However, enough of that. Do you believe in coincidence?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I want to know your opinion." He shrugged in his chair, looking at her innocently. "I remember you complained once about my lack of communicating. So, here I am–"

"What exactly has that priest told you, Doctor?" Clara slumped into another chair face-to-face to him.

 _Clever._

"Nothing I don't know." He took some time to come up with the answer. Clara gave him a scrutinising look. Why was he so defensive all of a sudden?

"What was it?"

The Time Lord peeked at the book which lay literally between them. It did not go unnoticed to Clara and she realised it must be somehow connected with it.

"You know what? Maybe it was a coincidence after all." He sighed trying to shake her off his shoulders.

"You don't believe in coincidences, we both know that, Doctor." She chuckled and smiled soothingly. "But whatever it was I'm 100 percent sure it's nothing so scary to not share with me."

The Doctor nodded considerably. That was surprisingly fast to crackle him. "It was a poem."

"See? I've told you, nothing to be afraid–"

"The one you've read today already."

She stopped her tracks, and now she was the one staring at History of The Centre of the Universe, Paradoxical Eternity and Eternal Paradoxes with a thoughtful look. But could it really be?..

"The riddle from the book?"

"The riddle from the book." He nodded.

"Then it's definitely not a coincidence."

"Not a coincidence." He shook his head. "The author's death, the death of priest's ancestor after he got the message, Rodwell's death – he's the one who left a note that we were coming to the wall. Even the TARDIS malfunction is not a coincidence. Of course, I'll try to fix her. And, of course, I'll fail. It's a trap, Clara. A trap designed specifically for me."

"So someone built a mystery box around a hook. Better to find out who it is. Any ideas?"

"None."

"Right. And you've never heard before about this King of Owls."

"Never." She watched a light smile crawling on his face. "Isn't that exciting?"


	3. Chapter 3

Well, I'm starting to warm up again. Here's a bit (a whole chapter) of interaction between the Doctor and Clara. Enjoy!

* * *

Clara woke up the next morning in the bedroom in the TARDIS and felt suddenly hungry. She brushed her teeth, walked down the corridor to the kitchen and got a sandwich from a fridge and made a nice cup of tea. After that, she was cautiously walking down another corridor that wasn't changing its direction. Odd.

There were no sudden holograms of Weeping angels, no abrupt cut of gravity, no tricks from the TARDIS she knew. Also, it might be only her imagination, but wasn't it chilly here? Clara was puzzled by the TARDIS solitude. She remembered a trick the Doctor had used once when the lights had went down and decided to try it out.

Having put on the floor everything she held, the woman touched a wall to check for any kind of vibrations. The Doctor had told her the life was pouring through the walls of her, he had used the same trick to lead them back to the console and find the problem. Apart from the blood throbbing in her hand Clara couldn't feel anything. She closed her eyes and concentrated. There was nothing. No ticks, no tocks, not even the rushing sound of energy that had used to pour through the walls. A total pure silence surrounded her, and she was inside this silent box, she had been sleeping in it and was heading to the library as usual without a single thought in her head, until now, that the TARDIS was as if she was dead. And how long had she been sleeping? Because it was quite a long time. And she knew the Doctor. If he couldn't have fixed her, then it was far too serious than it had used to seem.

Clara gathered her small breakfast from the floor and continued. They still had two more days to chill before they hit the road to York. She entered the library and headed to her spot, the one where she used to have breakfast and a bite of reading after that. She turned the corner and was surprised to see the Doctor himself, resting in her favourite comfy armchair.

She wanted to send him away, that was her spot and he knew that, he must have known after hearing it from her approximately dozen times previously. But she lost her track as she noticed the Time Lord's eyes were shut and his breathing was slow. Strange. She saw him sleeping rarely and only in the console room, where he had his _own_ nice armchair.

Her eyes darted from his relaxed face to the book in his lap, probably he had been reading it at some point. It was _Harry Potter_. As it was cute it was also very odd. He had read it once, long time ago, and it hadn't been a pleasant time.

Having decided against waking him up, she took a chair and sat next to him, putting the cup on a coffee table. She was eating her sandwich watching the Doctor thoroughly. He seemed restless now, his brows knitted together just a bit, and his mouth was slightly open. It looked like he was whispering something but she couldn't understand his gibberish. After eating her breakfast, she washed her hands and returned back to the library where the Doctor was finally awoken.

"Have you been sleeping?" She asked him, not sure what answer she wanted to hear. But the Doctor was the Doctor, and he chose the sarcastic one to give her.

"No, I've been thinking with my eyes shut. See the difference."

"I see that you're sleeping too much nowadays. And you looked scared just for a second," she added with hesitation.

"Did I?" He tried not to give himself away but she could see through his veil. "Well, that was because I've been sleeping in _your_ armchair. It's a miracle I'm still alive." The book fell down from his lap as he stood up. He looked at it surprised, like he had forgotten it had been laying on his knees all this time. But now he couldn't deny he had been reading it.

"Doctor. The last time you read Harry Potter was when–" Clara was saying but the Doctor cut her immediately.

"I just had to read something different from that riddle."

"Ah." Of course he wouldn't accept that something was wrong with him. Maybe she should try the next time. "Do you have any hints?"

"Um. Yes, actually. But you won't like it."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't like it."

"Oh, then I certainly won't like it. What is it?"

He discarded two pieces of paper from his pocket and gave it to her. Having unfolded them, she saw that they were two notes. They were red sluggish _"HE S KOMIN TO TH VALL"_ and _"FALAW MI"_. The last one she'd seen but the first one must be written by Rodwell.

"They're both written alike," Clara realised.

"Yes. But they were written by completely different people; the first was a peasant, the second was a royal."

"Hang on. You said that Rodwell, a peasant, had died, right?"

The Doctor nodded, leaning back in the armchair. "You're right, Clara. They're not so different as it might seem."

"But that Earl, if he sent us a message, surely he must be still alive."

"He's sixty years old, Clara. We can't be sure that when we're in York he'll great us personally! Actually, there is the third note."

"The third?"

"Yep. Found it when tried to fix her." He gave it to Clara, retrieving from the same pocket.

The paper had used to be some book written in Gallifreyan, it wasn't translated. On the other side of it, in the blue ink, and with more rapid and jumpy handwriting, it said _"NO TRICKS FAREIDA NO TRICKS FAREIDA NO TRICKS FAREIDA ONE TRICK AND FAREIDA HERT B BRIKEN"._

"Fareida?" Clara asked the Doctor.

"A healer," he explained. "It's a word from Glaxanian language, one of the first language in this universe. Why is it always something ancient? Why can't it, just for a variety, be something new and something I know already?"

"I don't know. But I know that someone is totally blackmailing you."

"Oh, is he? Well, _that someone_ should have known better to threat a person with _two_ hearts."

"Show-off." Clara smirked at him, leaving two notes between them on a coffee table. "Any guess what the note means?"

"This someone doesn't want us to use the TARDIS, if else the note wouldn't have been hidden in the console. But she's not damaged. There's nothing to repair, she's just…" the Doctor looked up for the appropriate word in the air, "empty. And I can't reach the engines nor the Eye of Harmony nor any other three power sources; they're deadlocked. So he really has nothing to be scared about."

"I think you miss one obvious thing."

"Enlighten me then."

"We're alright." The Doctor hid his smirk with a thumb, scratching his chin.

"I didn't miss it, Clara. I'm trying to ignore it."

"And why would you do that?"

"Because the TARDIS is empty. I have no idea why, I hate not knowing why, this is my machine, my ship, I had long time to learn her better without any manual. And still here we are, talking nonchalantly about my new sleeping habits and what book I'm reading today."

"Well then, let's stop talking about the obvious part and move to the less obvious…"

"Your armchair?"

"If you could stop occupying it that would be great." He didn't. "I meant fareida. A Glaxanian word. Tell me more about them."

"Well, fareida is more like a bad word… I don't know how to explain it but… it's… it's like… umm…"

"Take all the time you need."

"Vocabulary says it's used when a person does healing but it's not… it's not a good healing. Either because the healer is not helping much or his healing harms him back or he can't heal himself."

"Ah. So our blackmailer must be Glaxanian then, right?"

"It would have been obvious. But…"

"It's not," she ended the sentence for him after a long pause.

"Glaxanians are from the farthest corner of this universe. Well, not a corner, universes always expand, so they don't have corners. They're from the first galaxy. They were," the Doctor smirked, "sort of first."

"And let me guess, it's impossible to have one of them running on Earth in medieval ages."

"Yes, but not only."

"They extinct?"

"Are you reading my mind, Clara? Please stop that." But she was already on this track, blood pumping through her brain, excitement boiling in her stomach, she was really into the brainstorm.

"But nobody have seen this alien. As if it's…"

"…living in another dimension?"

"I wanted to say invisible."

"Oh."

"Living in another dimension?"

"Glaxanians were the first, hence they were the loneliest. But they were creative and skilled and stupid enough to drill a hole in space, they thought that they might find someone there, intended to send a spaceship for checking. Instead, their home-planet was sucked into that hole."

"So it is possible to have one of them messing around on Earth?"

"Well, the probability of it has risen, that's true, but we still can't be too sure it's Glaxanian. Let's not get too much into if's and what if's, we'll only get ourselves confused if it's not a Glaxanian. I wonder though what myths Glaxanians used to have. You see, this riddle, it strikes you as familiar, you might as well swear that you've heard it somewhere in your past but you didn't. It's so because of its melody and mythical composition. It's a myth. And I wonder if it has intends of becoming a real fact."

"Let's hope it's not."

"Oh, Clara. My sweet, sweet Clara. I'm afraid we're already a part of it," the Doctor said with a note of sadness.

He instantly shook himself out of this state, granted a little smile and left the library, leaving with it Clara with impression that he wasn't telling her something again.


End file.
